


Dubious Consent

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Comfort, M/M, Morning After, No actual dubious consent in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:38:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It sounds so stupid. It is so stupid, especially when Carson’s ready and willing to administer one of the sedatives he keeps threatening to grind up in Rodney’s coffee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dubious Consent

Better, Rodney thinks as he slowly wakes up. Much, _much_ better. He snuffles happily into a pillow that shifts and rolls underneath him.

Huh. Not a pillow.

Shoulder? No, too much hair, scratchy and cool in comparison to the hot, hot skin he rests against. Chest? Hm, no. Not _enough_ hair.

“Ow,” John announces. His voice rumbles along Rodney’s bones, augmenting the lazy drawl. “You need to shave.”

Rodney responds by rubbing his cheek back and forth. The motion starts out teasingly hard, but as John laughs, making Rodney’s head bob -- stomach? Is he sleeping on John’s stomach? -- he discovers it feels _good_. Really good. So he slows down, dragging the side of his face all over the soft, gentle swell of John’s stomach -- broader than John would like, although Rodney has no complaints -- the with-and-against scrape of his whiskers oddly soothing.

“Really, Rodney. You need to _shave_. When was the last time?”

“Uh.” His voice is rough with sleep, hoarse like he’s been sick for a week at least and is only now getting better. He _feels_ like that, too: his sinuses gradually clearing for the first time in a while and the constant ache around his eyes easing to something tolerable. “Four days ago? Possibly?”

“Slob.” 

A warm hand bangs his shoulder; it’s less a slap and more of a tap, but Rodney still says, “Hey!” in annoyance. John just laughs, which has Rodney’s head bouncing and jiggling enough that he has to pull himself up, with a, “Whoa, hey, no making me sea-sick! You know what happens!”

“You’re not sea-sick, Rodney.” John’s blissfully naked, looking golden and tanned against Rodney’s definitely-not-military-issue bedding. It’s an unusual sight. They don’t often have time to lounge in bed, but more importantly, _John_ rarely lounges naked. He’s always in boxers at the very least. 

Rodney looks up and down, just checking: no shirt; no boxers; not even socks.

John Sheppard, the original Icy Feet Man, _always_ wears socks.

“Are we on holiday?” Rodney asks. So far, his morning has been incredibly pleasant. A little unusually so, given John’s naked lounging, but still quite nice. Rodney doesn’t trust nice. He knows he’s paranoid but two years of living in the Pegasus galaxy has taught him to _trust_ his paranoia. It’s a useful survival trait.

Wait. Vague memories of the last few days start reawakening, including -- what the hell had he been doing yesterday? Specifically, last night?

John looks on indulgently, like he knows exactly what Rodney’s thinking. He might. John’s always found Rodney’s constant worrying amusing. “No, Rodney,” he says genially, “we’re not on holiday. C’mere.” He wraps an arm around Rodney’s shoulders, pulling their bodies together, then slides his fingers up to Rodney’s temples, warm and solid and with just the right amount of pressure.

Mm. It’s probably not fair that John knows so many tricks, but it feels _incredible_. Rodney knows he’s too much of a hedonist to say no. Sighing contentedly, he lets his eyes close, trying to decide between taking a nap or maybe rolling John over, or maybe even breakfast, because mm, breakfast sounded really -- 

He bolts upright. “Oh, my God.” No. No, this isn’t happening. “Oh, my _God_ ,” he repeats, voice cracking into falsetto heights. “Tell me that the door was locked!”

John tucks his hand back behind his head. He doesn’t look at all worried at Rodney’s ensuing panic-attack, which usually makes Rodney want to strangle him. How can someone be that calm? “Yes, Rodney, I locked the door.”

His palms itch to feel skin and stubble and hot, pounding blood as he squeezes -- but John’s calm. He’s _actually_ calm, not just pretending for Rodney’s benefit. Okay. Rodney can accept that and calm down, too. He can. Somewhat, anyway. If there was a problem, he knows John would only seem relaxed. So, no problem. Well, there’s still a _problem_. Just not an immediate one.

John’s quirks an eyebrow. It makes him look long-suffering and condescending, but Rodney knows what it means. He makes himself take deep breaths, the way Teyla’s always telling him to. Strangling John will result in less orgasms, he reminds himself. Besides. There are other ways to get his point across. He glares imperiously, “You know those lists women give their significant others of all the crap jobs they claim not to be able to do?” 

“Aww, you want to give me a honey-do list?” John answers. His tone is the same as before, but his grin a little wider. Smug bastard. “Sure, Rodney. I can do that.” The unspoken _yes, dear_ is even louder.

Rodney glowers -- he’d been so certain John would flinch at anything resembling a normal relationship -- but lays back down, ear to John’s armpit. It’s unsanitary and a little disgusting if he lets himself think about it, but it’s also _comfortable_ , so he doesn’t. And despite them both needing showers, it’s nicer than he’ll ever admit. John always smells really, really good when he wakes up. “The security feed?”

“Completely disabled.” John sounds almost patronizing, dragging out his already incomprehensible drawl in a reassuring way. Most of the female scientists look like they’d rather swallow live porcupines than endure that particular voice, but then, they don’t hear it very often. Usually it’s only Rodney who gets that combination of bemused resignation. “I didn’t replace it with anything, though, so people are going to know it’s been tampered with.”

That doesn’t bother Rodney, who waves a careless hand. “Please. Nobody looks at those feeds unless they have a reason to, or are our seconds who are possibly too anal for their respective jobs. I mean, do Zelenka and Lorne get their kicks out of studying mind-numbing boring security feeds?”

It’s a full thirty seconds before Rodney starts blushing. He hates that he blushes. It’s not fair that he’s so damned pale that he turns into a fourteen year old girl whenever he remembers certain things. It’s also something he can’t do anything about. McKay’s have always been pale, even if Jeannie was lucky enough to have a touch of gold to her complexion. She rarely blushed, too, the dissembling minx.

“Awww,” John teases, then grunts when Rodney pokes him in the stomach. Hard. “Ow! Bastard.”

“Hm, if I recall, that’s what I called _you_.” 

He doesn’t, actually. Recall. Just bits and pieces, flashes of John’s neck from way up close, the fine skin dotted with the beard he can’t ever really shave smooth; the sensation of being held up by John’s arm around his waist -- hard and solid and tight enough to hurt, except it doesn’t, it never does; John’s cock inside of him, thick and hot and so perfect that Rodney remembers his thoughts, unknown swirls of too much, too many, melting away into a hazy relief of _yes, please_ ; the sound of John’s voice, just commanding enough that Rodney didn’t think, _couldn’t_ think, just went with it. 

Swallowing against a suddenly dry throat, Rodney says, “I’m not changing my assessment, you understand. You _are_ a bastard.”

John’s laughter is half-guttural chuckle, half braying donkey. It’s a constant source of frustration because a laugh that horrible is not something Rodney should find endearing. Ever. Except he _does_. And John knows it, the jerk. “There’s a fairly long line of CO’s who called me that, yeah.” John’s smirk is downright evil, even if Rodney can only see the edges of it. “Probably not for the same reasons.”

“I should hope not,” Rodney snaps automatically. Message heard and understood, though. He relaxes, breathing out slowly. “Was -- not that I’m suggesting that I was never fully in control of myself, but. Was I really that... that out of it?” 

It’s not like he can’t guess. The fact that he’s having trouble remembering more than smeared, distorted snapshots of the day before is confirmation of just how bad it’d been. His memory is usually faultless, particularly when sex is involved. Not remembering sex is _unforgivable_. 

And he does remember acting like a cranky two year old up past his bedtime for most of the afternoon.

He remembers not being able to do anything about it, either. And actually _wanting_ to.

Still -- he frowns, and tries to peer over the swell of John’s chest and his tucked in chin. “What time is it?”

“It’s Sunday morning time, and yeah. Yeah, you really were that out of it. Did you...” Stretching, John grabs something off the bedside table. The something turns out to be a power bar, presented inches from Rodney’s nose. “Here.”

Rodney stares, cross-eyed. “I’ll get crumbs all over you.”

“Yep.” John gives him his very best smile, brightly adding, “You will.”

How this man has become the one half the base looks up to for tips on cool is something Rodney can’t fathom. John Sheppard is a _dork_. A grade-A, one hundred percent _dork_ , who does things like save the chocolate peanut butter bower bars for Sunday morning pre-breakfast. Who knows Rodney can’t go without sleep as long as he used to even a year ago, not and still be coherent enough to function. 

And why he’s having trouble sleeping in the first place. 

And what to do about it.

Rodney traces abstract patterns on John’s chest, pushing back curls that aren’t springy, like his own, but thick enough to have weight and stay pressed down flat to his skin. The power bar rises and falls in time with Rodney’s head. He doesn’t open it.

“We don’t have Sunday mornings on Atlantis.”

Sighing, John grunts and twists until he’s facing Rodney, their heads sharing an actual pillow. The power bar slides onto the bed between them, silvery and multi-colored and distracting. “We do now. It’s not supposed to get that hot for another few days, and even then, we’ll prop open a few windows and deal. A broken HVAC is not life-threatening.”

It’s not. Rodney knows it isn’t. Oh, there are definitely reasons to be concerned, since they aren’t quite sure what’s broken in the first place, or how to fix it, or whether there’ll be the kind of brown-out repercussions he and Zelenka have been theorizing on, ever since the first thermostat -- and he’s never forgiving John for putting that word in his head -- blew. It’s _bad_. 

But on a scale of Lucius-to-Wraith, it’s barely worth mentioning.

They’ll fix it. If they don’t, the marines will bitch about the heat and the scientists will all take siestas. It’s hardly anything to get worked up about.

“Hey.” John’s voice sounds different without bone and skin to distort it. “Rodney. You okay?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

It sounds so stupid. It _is_ so stupid, especially when Carson’s ready and willing to administer one of the sedatives he keeps threatening to grind up in Rodney’s coffee. There’s no reason for it, either. There’s no emergency so pressing, no discomfort so annoying at the moment, so he should be able to sleep. He should, except he couldn’t, not for more than an hour or two at a time no matter what he did. 

That, more than the lack of sleep, is what drove him into a furious, petulant temper the night before.

“Insomnia’s not that uncommon.” John leans in for a kiss, mouth sleep-sour and comforting, lips soft and warm against his own. “Rodney. Hey. _McKay_. It’s okay.”

“The entire night staff walked out on me, saying they’d rather face a Wraith than me in a temper.” He could’ve lived without remembering that. Too bad it’s not the worst thing anyone’s ever said to him. “You know, I used to be able to take care of myself just fine,” he snaps. There’s no heat to it, though, that’s saved up for the next kiss, slower than the first. His lower lip throbs and he remembers, now, that John had bitten it. Hard. “I didn’t—I don’t—”

He’s still tired, clearly, because that makes no sense. 

John doesn’t seem to mind. He swallows anything else Rodney might say with more kisses, progressively deeper and more mind-stealing, until they’re panting into each other’s faces. He’s gripping the back of Rodney’s head too hard, but then, Rodney’s got a death grip on his side, handfuls of flesh pinched tight that John doesn’t object to. “You can take care of yourself. That’s not something I worry about.”

“Oh, yes, a reassuring pep-talk from the man who—”

“Likes being able to help,” John says, spacing each word out. “Once in a while.”

Oh. That’s -- oh. Rodney swallows, licking the taste of John from his lips. He’s not very good at being taken care of. He’s not good at taking care of others, either, so he’s always figured it was a trade-off. But John -- he wants to take care of John. He does, actually, when John’s sick or hurt or just exhausted because everyone else only sees the ready smile and slouching confidence and doesn’t always get that there’s more inside.

But that’s different. John grumbles about boundaries and Rodney being too damned pushy when he does that, but he’s always ready for it. Even if he bitches.

Rodney’s never ready for it. He doesn’t know how to be. There’s always so much do to, things only he can do whether it’s because he really is that indispensable or he’s made himself out to be. He’s never learned how to delegate or trust or all the things everyone else is so good at. So when it’s a crisis, and it’s always a crisis, Rodney takes on not just his own responsibility but everyone else’s, too, until all he knows is the pressure to get it done, to fix this, to make that better, to save the day, to be the genius, to make it all just go _away_ \-- 

And John knows that.

Rodney closes his eyes, a flash of memory so strong it’s like he’s relieving it: John pressed up against his back, his hips working steadily, almost mechanically while Rodney burns and gasps and babbles beneath him. Like John could keep fucking him forever, if that’s what Rodney needed, until there was nothing but the pure reality of John inside him. 

Like he’d _want_ to.

It’s a little humiliating to know this much about yourself. He pops a single eye open. John’s watching him, a little concerned, a little amused. Because John is _always_ a little amused, the whole universe one great big cosmic joke for him to chortle at.

Rodney’s other eye opens and he glares. “Oh, please,” he snaps. “Like last night had nothing to do with you and four days without my ass.”

Saying the right thing at the right time is a skill Rodney doesn’t have. Still, statistically he has to do it some time, and this moment is it. He doesn’t know how or why -- he’s being _crass_ \-- but suddenly the concern in John’s eyes is melting away as they crinkle up into a smile. There’s a sense of _thank god_ , as if some hurdle has been cleared with inches to spare. John doesn’t explain it though. He just says, “Well, I wouldn’t say that it had _nothing_ to do with that.”

“Nymphomaniac freak,” Rodney accuses.

John nods. “Yup. That’s me. I’m the one who likes blowjobs on missions or, hey, that one closet _right_ outside the labs... ”

“Oh, shut up,” Rodney grumbles.

“You know, only you could make Sunday mornings so complicated.” John’s not actually complaining, Rodney gets that and --

Oh. _Oh_. He doesn’t flush, but it’s close. He’s not quite as bad as John when it comes to sticky emotional issues, but he’s pretty bad and hey! The sticky emotional issue’s already been successfully navigated. With as little direct conversation as possible. And all is right with the world. Well. Right enough, anyway. “Sunday morning, huh? By which you actually mean a Weir-sanctioned day of rest?”

John nods eagerly, his own whiskers shushing against the pillow. “And by Weir, I mean Beckett. I kinda promised I shoot anyone who tries to bother you, too.”

That makes Rodney blink. He’s well aware that they’re an open secret on Atlantis. John sleeps here almost every night, even if he’s gone long before Rodney wakes up in the morning. No one looks twice when they stand too close together or suddenly have a pressing reason to be away from everyone else. Together. For at least fifteen minutes.

If anything, that seems to make people laugh at them. 

But if John’s saying what Rodney _thinks_ he’s saying... that’s new. That’s very new.

Rolling, Rodney pushes up to straddle John’s hips. He leans forward, grabbing and pinning unresisting wrists -- and that’s almost shouted confirmation. “All day, huh?”

John’s chin comes up defiantly, but his eyes are dancing. “You were hoping for more?”

“And let _Simpson_ decide she’s in charge again?” He grins, because Simpson actually did a good job -- not that he’ll ever tell her that. “Please. She’ll try and prove gravity doesn’t exist. Again.”

John pouts, or tries to. He’s grinning too much to be successful. “Aw, you don’t want to spend hours and hours -- ”

Rodney kisses him silent. He knows John’s just being playful and doesn’t mean it, but the words come too close to something Rodney isn’t ready to acknowledge. John isn’t, either, but he’s too busy paying attention to Rodney’s reactions to hear what he’s saying. Pulling back, Rodney bites on John’s lower lip hard enough that he draws a single drop of blood.

John glares. “Hey! What was that for?” It’d be more effective if he wasn’t panting, dick hard against the inside of Rodney’s thigh, brushing wet trails that cool almost instantly.

Rolling his eyes, Rodney juts his chin forward. “To match the one you gave me last night?”

“You remember that?” Outrage melts away into a heavy-lidded, sultry heat that never fails to leave Rodney breathless. John is lust and sin incarnate when he’s like this; ready and _easy_. God, so easy. “Remember why I did that?”

Certain parts of yesterday are still fuzzy and some of the details escape him, but Rodney remembers this part. He dips his head to trail hard, biting kisses that’ll leave red-purple bruises no one will comment on down John’s jaw and his neck, enjoying the rasp of stubble against his tongue, sharp and almost cutting before he pushes them back in grain.

“Mm,” he says, lips and teeth busy against the swell of John’s collar bone. “I _did_ ask about the security feed for a reason.”

John goes very still, but the burst of warmth against Rodney’s belly is all that matters. “I thought you meant -- ”

He still has a grip on John’s wrists. Tightening, he waits until he can feel the constant trip-hammer of John’s pulse against his skin, until it’s _almost_ pain. John’s still rigid, except for the quick rise and fall of chest, and the way his pupil’s dilate as Rodney stares at them. “Gonna say no?”

“Never.” Refusing assent isn’t a game John knows how to play, not from this end. He’s too eager, too willing for whatever Rodney wants. It makes no sense, since it’s Rodney who can’t tell a lie and John who lives one -- but it works for them. “Never, I wouldn’t -- ”

“Sh.” Rodney leans down hard, pushing John back against the bed. It’s probably difficult for John to breathe. He doesn’t care. “Did you like it? Do you like it when I tell you no, I don’t want it, stop, and push back against you for more?”

John hisses through his teeth, hips rocking up against Rodney’s. “I might. A little.”

God. Still leaving all his weight on John’s body, Rodney ducks down enough to find John’s nipples, tracing the taut flesh with his tongue, biting along his pecs. His skin tastes salty. Good. “Uh huh. Only a little.”

Rodney licks his navel, nibbling the skin there

John arches perfectly, groaning. He can take it rougher than Rodney can. He _enjoys_ it rougher than Rodney does, although Rodney knows he’s no delicate flower when it comes to the pursuit of a really good orgasm. He makes a circle of marks on John’s stomach, livid red constellations that will darken so soon. John is moaning, gasping and trying desperately to stay still, but one particular gasp knocks Rodney off entirely.

That’s okay, though. It’s really okay. Rodney stares fixedly at John’s body, breathing ragged. “I’m going to fuck you now.”

“Fuck, yes,” John grates, and then he’s a flurry of movements: digging out the lube and condoms, bucking and twisting until Rodney’s on his back, his cock in John’s mouth for one hot, blissful moment before wet heat is swapped for tight latex and cold lube. There’s a frenzied look in John’s eye, lips moving over words he doesn’t give voice to.

Rodney knows what he’s saying. Rodney knows what he’s _doing_ , too, and no. “Not a chance,” he growls, rolling and grappling so that John’s the one on his back, knees forced to his ears. “I said, I was going to fuck you,” he repeats. The words wobble the way his hands don’t. “Not that I don’t appreciate your willingness to sit on my cock and do all the work, especially since you look _really_ hot like that, and I swear to God you look _drugged_ when you do, but right now I just really, really want to -- ”

John’s low, wordless moan -- the one that always sounds like it’s more pain than pleasure -- cuts off his tirade. Tight heat, tighter than Rodney usually allows, envelopes Rodney’s cock, and oh God that’s good. That’s _so_ good, and John thinks so too, because he’s still moaning, eyelids fluttering over nothing but white as his head tips back. Rodney’s still got one wrist pinned down. It has to hurt, since that’s the arm Rodney’s using for balance, but John doesn’t do more than flex lightly in Rodney’s grip.

Tomorrow, he’ll probably complain about bruises and almost broken bones -- he complains almost as much as Rodney knows _he_ does. But that’s tomorrow, when John’s not saying, “Yeah, come on, McKay, fuck me. Fuck me hard, stop dawdling,” in that sandpaper drawl that’s as much impatience as it is sex which only makes it _sexier_ , and when Rodney’s blood isn’t beating so hard his head starts to ache, trembling with eagerness to thrust and rut and _fuck_ , he’s able to come up with some kind of rebuttal.

Grunting, Rodney drops enough that he can mouth over John’s neck. John’s rocking back against him, as much as his pinned position allows. Guttural moans punctuate each thrust. “Tell me no,” Rodney says. He tastes sweat and sleep and the gun-metal tang that will always mean _John_. “Tell me I can’t.”

“Can.” The word is rusty, choked off and tight as he takes it. “Always can, fuck -- _Rodney_.”

The rest of the hard, contrary words, an angry compliment from last night’s exhaustion, dissolve to nothing. Rodney moans, diving in for a kiss as harsh and hot as every one of his thrusts. He hears John say, “always,” again, feels a hand grip his hair too tightly. Rodney doesn’t object, doesn’t complain. He can’t say no, not when John makes a noise that’s almost a sob, not when his mind is clear and free for the first time in days, and he’s coming hard enough to see stars he’s touched go nova in front of his eyes.

“You know.” John’s voice is muffled. “I need my wrist to defend you when we’re offworld. Also if you ever want me to jerk you off again.”

Sweat makes them both sticky. Rodney’s still panting, but it’s mostly because each inhalation tastes like John. He makes a grumpy noise into John’s throat. Who cares about suffocation? He’ll survive.

“I am _not_ explaining to Beckett why only one hand looks like it’s been cuffed.”

“Mm. Like he won’t know why.” John’s whiny comments aside, Rodney’s starting to stick. He carefully pulls free, then collapses onto his back. Their shoulders press together. “Hey.”

“Hey?” John stretches -- long and luxurious and Rodney has to watch _every second_ \-- then molds himself along Rodney’s side. “Hey, what hey?”

“I, um. I’m not very. Well, it’s not that I don’t _want_ to, it’s just that it’s so rarely _needed_ that -- that is to say, um, about last night, I probably _should_ \-- ”

John lets him ramble for a few more seconds, then kisses him quiet. “Any time.”

“You -- ”

“It’s not like I _mind_ fucking you in your lab.”

“Yeah, about that.” Rodney’s too sated to get wound up, and the promise of hours with nothing to do -- something he’s learned John will enforce -- helps as well, but he can’t stop the frown. “You do realize that some of that was because of the _location_ , and not what you were doing, right? There were delicate pieces of equipment that -- mmph!”

John’s grinning when he finally pulls back. “I knew.”

Rodney’s frown deepens. “You know, this is why I say you never listen to me. You _don’t_.”

A flash of something turns John’s eyes from hazel to green. “Sure I do. Which is why I’m only telling you _now_ that I didn’t so much disable the security feed as... reprogram it.”

John’s skills as a programmer consist mostly of asking Atlantis very nicely for whatever it is he wants. Worse, it works almost every time. “Which means what, exactly?” Rodney asks. Too many possibilities to count flash through his mind. 

“Which means, you wanna watch it later?”


End file.
